The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles)

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “May God forgive you, although I very much doubt he will,” the Abbot said with malice. “Now get out of my church.”

  Those were Amandine’s new favourite words. The ones she longed to hear. Get out of my church. She would gladly get out and never come back, but that wasn’t to be. The Abbot was going to save her soul from some made up sin, and that was the end of it. To begin with, she had tried to argue with the Abbot. She had not betrayed her marriage vows. She had not given herself to Merton. She wasn’t a whore. But the Abbot said she was a liar. She was a rebellious woman who needed a strong master to beat her into submission.

  Amandine opened her eyes and began to crawl back the way she had come. If she stood, she would suffer the consequences. Once she had made her way out of the sacred ground, she was allowed back on her feet. But her feet were so numb with the cold that she couldn’t feel them. And yet, she was expected to walk. So using the wall to help her, she staggered back onto her feet and gritted her teeth against the pain.

  Brother Daniel walked towards her. She watched with pain-filled eyes, as he stepped closer to her. He secretly handed her a small piece of cheese, which she closed her fingers around gratefully. He then brushed passed her and went into the church. Amandine popped the cheese into her mouth, the flavour bursting on her tongue, but she did not have the time to savour it. She chewed quickly and swallowed it down before anyone noticed. It was a dangerous game she and Brother Daniel played. To pay penance, the Abbot had ordered that Amandine was to go without food for forty days and forty nights. Amandine wasn’t Jesus; she knew she couldn’t survive that long without nourishment. Thankfully, so did Brother Daniel, may God bless his soul. But despite Brother Daniel’s best efforts, she had lost a tremendous amount of weight in the two sennights that she had been entrusted to the Abbot’s care.

  With tired eyes, she looked back up at the sky. Night had come and gone, and the sky was the colour of blood. She wondered if this would be the last sunrise she would ever see. She hoped so.

  “Get out of my church,” the Abbot yelled again from behind her.

  She wished she had the energy to tell him to go to Hell, and that she wasn’t actually in his church anymore but on the threshold, but he had worn down her spirit. He had broken her. She took a step and almost fell.

  “I said, get out,” he yelled again, as he approached her. He gave her a not so gentle push in the back, and she stumbled to her knees, scraping them. The Abbot, at last, had his blood — that would please him if nothing else. The Abbot slammed the door behind him as he stepped back into his church. Amandine was left to make her way back to her cell. They would come for her again in a couple of hours, and she would have to do the whole horrendous thing all over again. She hoped that the next time they came for her, they would find her corpse waiting for them. Then finally she would be free of their condemnations and their judgements.

  There were a few servants who were up and about, and they all stood and looked at her. Not one of them offered to help her. She was a sinful woman. She deserved everything she got — that is what the Abbot had told everyone, and everyone knew that what he said was the truth, for he was God’s anointed spokesman.

  3

  Amandine didn’t have the energy to get up off the ground. She was so tired, so weak, that instead of trying to rouse herself, she lay down on the pitched paving and prayed for death.

  She heard the clatter of horseshoes, but she did not raise her head to look up — what was the point? Knowing her luck, it would be the horseman of the apocalypse, come to take her sinful soul home.

  “Oh my God, what have they done?” Alan asked as he swiftly dismounted and ran the short space between him and Amandine. He laid his hand on her back and tried to rouse her. “Amandine?”

  “I am the daughter of Satan,” she muttered. “I consort with demons. I am evil. I am a sinner. My soul will burn in Hell. I will be damned forever—”

  “By God, I will bloody kill the lot of them. What evil has the Abbot inflicted upon you? I have only been gone two sennights.”

  “I am the daughter of Satan. I consort with demons—”

  “Shh. No, you are not. Look at me, Amandine. Look at me.” Alan quickly unclasped the brooch that held his cloak and covered Amandine with the thick wool.

  She raised her head, but there were no signs of recognition in her eyes.

  “I…I am the daughter of—”

  “Stop it, Amandine. Drink this,” he brought his wineskin to her parched lips, and she swallowed greedily. “Look at me,” he said when there was no more ale left for her to drink. “It is Alan. Do you remember me? I’m your friend.”

  “Alan?” she looked at him with disbelief, and then she mustered a smile. “Are you really back or am I dreaming?”

  “I am back,” Alan smiled with relief. “And I am going to put a stop to this right now.”

  “The King?”

  “He’ll be here soon, and I know he will be incensed when he sees what they have done to you.”

  Brother Yannick chose that moment to come out of the church. “Get your hands off her,” he yelled, his rage clear for everyone to see. “Did you not hear me?” he continued to yell when Alan ignored him. “I said to get your hands off her. She is under the protection of the Church.”

  “Protection?” Alan turned his head, stood, and took a menacing step towards the monk. “You wouldn’t treat an animal the way you have treated her.”

  “How dare you speak to a man of God in such a way,” Brother Yannick shouted in rage.

  The Abbot, hearing the commotion, came out to see what was going on.

  “You dare call yourself a man of God?” Alan returned. “You should all be on your knees praying for forgiveness, but if I were God, I would be loathed to give it to you.”

  The Abbot’s fat face turned an alarming colour as his anger exploded within him. How dare a common soldier address him and his monks in such a disrespectful manner. “She has sinned. She is a sinner,” he accused, pointing his chubby finger at Amandine. “I have spent many hours in her company, and I know her heart is dark. And any man or woman who dares to consort with her is evil and in league with the Devil.” He rapidly performed the sign of the cross.”

  “You have a strange idea of what evil is,” Alan stated. Men like the Abbot did not cow him. “The only evil I can see is what has been given out by your hand.”

  “I am the daughter of Satan. I consort with demons…” Amandine covered her ears with her hands and continued to chant the words that she knew the Abbot liked to hear.

  The King and his party rode into the courtyard, and the servants rushed to tend to him and his entourage.

  “The King,” the Abbot raised his voice over the noise, “ordered me to cleanse her of the Devil and that is what I am doing. No one will stand in the way of my duty.”

  “The King said to cleanse her, not kill her,” Mordred Pendragon stated as he dismounted and took in the scene before him. He had no time for the Abbot of Brittany.

  The King dismounted also. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his white face flushed with a light tinge of rage and his tiredness from the long night’s ride temporarily forgotten. “Get her inside and summon my healer.”

  Alan lifted Amandine into his arms — he was alarmed by how light she was. Amandine had always been on the delicate side, but the woman he held in his arms was nothing but skin and bones. He climbed the steps to the entrance of the castle two at a time. His King had spoken, and for the first time, this was an order he would obey without question or thought.

  “You will explain yourself,” King Philippe stated, his voice soft, yet filled with a quiet rage. “I asked you to protect her while I was away.”

  “And that is what I have been doing,” the Abbot stated, puffing up his chest with pride. “But she is a wilful woman, and she needed a firm hand to bring her back into Christ’s Kingdom. I am saving her soul. God will look unfavourably upon anyone who tries to stop me from doing his wo
rk,” his last sentence came across as a thinly veiled threat.

  Mordred caught Philippe’s eyes and grinned. “No wonder Budic wanted rid of him,” he mumbled.

  Philippe glared at the Abbot. The Abbot stared back. He did not fear the new King. The Church was his power of domain and anyone, including the King, who dared to go against his judgment, would feel the wrath of Rome.

  Philippe looked away first and then he turned away from the Abbot. “Get me a whip. I shall beat the Devil out,” he announced, “and that will be the end of the matter once and for all.”

  The Abbot smiled. He knew the King would see things from his point of view. Philippe always listened to his council, more so than Budic du Lac ever had — may God curse him, wherever he now was.

  Philippe stepped towards him with a smile on his face. The Abbot smiled back, and they shared a moment of what the Abbot thought was mutual understanding.

  “Would you like me to whip you?” Philippe asked conversationally. “Or would you rather have the honours and do it yourself?” Philippe offered the whip to the Abbot.

  The redness fell from the Abbot’s face, and he did not take the offered whip. “You think I should…?” he huffed. “I am not a sinner. I need no pain to purify my soul, it is she,” he pointed towards the castle, “she is the one who needs a good flogging.”

  “You have sinned grievously, my Lord,” Philippe continued, “against God and against me. Now the only way I can see such a grievance being pardoned is by the sacrifice of your own blood. If you feel it is beneath you to do it yourself, then I am sure Lord Pendragon will not mind carrying out the honours,” Philippe said as he handed the whip to Mordred.

  Mordred grinned and cracked the air with the whip before stepping in closer towards the Abbot. “It is said I have a strong hand when it comes to dishing out punishments. You must remember to tell me afterwards if you agree with the consensus.”

  “The Pope will hear of this,” the Abbot bellowed, backing away from the threat. If he could reach the promised safety of the church, then no one could touch him, not even the King and especially not Mordred Pendragon.

  “I pity the Pope, I really do. I would hate to have to listen to your moaning voice all the time,” Mordred answered, and with a quick flick of his hand, Brittany soldiers positioned themselves behind the Abbot, cutting off his escape back to the church. “No wonder Budic had banished you from the kingdom. You are a bore, are you not? Oh, please, spare me,” Mordred said, raising his other hand up in the air to silence any retort the Abbot may have come back with. “Lady Amandine is the King’s ward. You were asked to help her find her way back to God after her unfortunate dalliance with a man who…well, we all know what Merton du Lac was. I don’t know what you have done to her, but it doesn’t look particularly spiritual.”

  “He has starved her, and denied her sleep.” Brother Daniel spoke up, for he could stay silent no longer. He had been standing in the doorway of the church listening to the events as they unfolded. “He has humiliated her and belittled her. Beat her and mistreated her. He is no Christian. He does not serve the same God as I do.”

  “How dare you?” The Abbot yelled. “I will see you punished for this. Let’s see how long you live without the Church to protect you.”

  “Are you saying that he is in league with the Devil?” Mordred asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “One of his servants, of that I am certain,” Brother Daniel returned. He did not look at his Abbot as he spoke, but kept his attention firmly fixed on Lord Pendragon.

  “Then he should burn,” Philippe stated, turning back around to look at the Abbot with contempt.

  “Sire, you forget who you are addressing. I was ordained by the Pope himself—”

  “Yes, we know, you have told us many times before. Regrettably, the Pope isn’t here, is he? So he will have no knowledge that I am about to do this.” Mordred stepped forward raised his whip and brought it down upon the Abbot. The Abbot screamed and fell to his knees, clutching at his face, blood seeping in-between his fingers.

  “My eye. My eye,” the Abbot screamed, at the same time the bottom of his skirts turned suspiciously wet. “Help me. Help me,” he cried out pitifully.

  His screams of agony had been heard within the church and the monks came running. But when they saw what was transpiring they stopped in their tracks. Not one monk came to the Abbot’s aid. They just stood there and watched. Even Brother Yannick, his most loyal supporter, seemed frozen to the spot.

  “Poor you,” Mordred mocked, “does it hurt?” and then he brought the whip down again, and again, and again. There was no mercy. Mordred didn’t know what that word meant. He stopped only so he could grin at the Abbot who was squirming on the ground in agony.

  “Stand him up,” Mordred ordered.

  Two soldiers stepped forward and helped the Abbot to his feet. “Let’s give the Abbot a burial worthy of his station.”

  “He isn’t dead yet,” one of the soldiers pointed out.

  “Is he not? That’s a shame. At least he will be able to say that he was at his own funeral. You,” Mordred pointed to Brother Yannick, “fetch a spade, we need a grave dug.”

  “My Lord—” Brother Yannick began to protest, but Brother Daniel cut him off.

  “He is in league with the Devil also,” Brother Daniel stated. “They both are.”

  Mordred turned his attention to Brother Yannick. “You’ll be needing to dig two graves then.”

  Brother Yannick began to protest his innocence, but his cries met only deaf ears.

  The King turned his back on the scene. He had seen enough. There was nothing more for him to do here and truth to tell, since flaying Merton du Lac alive, his stomach wasn’t as strong as it once was. Thoughts of that day kept him awake at night. At the time, seeing Merton du Lac lying helpless on the floor, blood everywhere, beaten and submissive, had given Philippe a feeling of immense power. Afterwards, the guilt had come. Merton had been his cousin. He was blood. And although Philippe had despised Merton and everything he had stood for, he found that he hated himself more for his lack of mercy. Philippe had also beaten Amandine. That day had certainly not been his proudest of moments. He had made a lot of mistakes, but he would learn from them. He had made an oath, never to raise his hand to a woman again and as for his enemies, that’s what he had Mordred for. Why bloody his own hands, when he could let someone else bloody theirs?

  Philippe began to make his way into the castle. He would write a letter to Rome directly and tell the Pope that his Abbot had an unfortunate accident. It would be for the best if the Pope didn’t hear the details of that accident. The last thing he wanted was to explain himself to someone who thought himself more powerful than a King. He would seek Brother Daniel’s council from now on in matters of religion. In fact, he would recommend Brother Daniel take the position of Abbot. He was sure the Pope would not deny his request if it came with a large donation to the Church.

  Philippe would have preferred to recommend someone like Brother Sampson for the role of Abbot. For although young as he was, Brother Sampson had an air of grace about him. It was said that God stayed very close to this monk. Sampson was the monk you wanted with you in battle. Unfortunately, Brother Sampson had favoured the du Lacs. He had helped the King of Cerniw and his disgraced brother, Budic, escape. If Sampson ever dared showed his face in Brittany again, then Philippe would stretch his neck — regardless if God was with him or not.

  “He is going to bury him alive,” one of the servants muttered, crossing himself in fear as he watched the Abbot being dragged, kicking and screaming, away.

  “The Abbot will be all right. He has a place set aside for him in Heaven. It is the rest of us that are going to Hell,” an elderly manservant muttered under his breath. The other servants who heard him nodded their heads in agreement. “Come on,” the old man said, trying not to smile, “back to work, this has nothing whatsoever to do with us.”

  Philippe smiled at the old man’s words. Withou
t the Abbot breathing damnation down all of their necks, life would be easier for everyone.

  4

  There was a space between sleeping and awakening — a sacred space that was all too brief in its intensity, where everything was as it should be. Merton was alive. Amandine was happy and in love. Merton had chased away the fog that had surrounded her since she had lost her first husband, Garren. Merton had brought her back into the light. Merton was smiling at her in that indulgent way of his, and his eyes shone with a gentle humour. She smiled back, and he pulled her softly into his embrace. She wrapped her arms around him and held on as tight as she could. She felt the softness of his lips against her forehead, and she closed her eyes. He was her rock, her anchor. He was her everything.

  But as her dreams faded away, reality descended, and she felt her heart break anew. Merton was dead. He was gone from her forever. Never would she feel his arms around her again. Never would she look into his eyes and see love.

  She opened her eyes, and for a moment she felt confused. She didn’t know where she was. This wasn’t the cell the Abbot had thrown her into. This wasn’t that prison. This room smelt of beeswax candles and the air was warm. She was lying on a soft bed, with a thick fur wrapped around her. She was back in her chamber in the castle. She had prayed for a miracle — it seemed that God had, through all the damnations, heard her silent plea.

  “I thought you were never going to wake up,” Brother Daniel said in a voice filled with compassion. “You have slept a day and a night.”

  She turned her head in the direction of Brother Daniel’s voice. He was sitting on a chair, a blanket over his knees and he was smiling at her, his gentle brown eyes watching her with what appeared to be sympathy. His once dark hair had the telling signs of age, and there were creases around his kind eyes that became more pronounced when he smiled. This was what a man of the cloth should look like. Not like the Abbot whose eyes shot sparks of condemnation. Brother Daniel had always been a gentle soul and a kind one. She stretched her hand out towards him. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently, much like a father would do to his daughter.